


Wanheda

by justbecauseyoubelievesomething



Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [18]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Grounder Culture, Original Mythology, Post-Mount Weather, Season 2 aftermath, Storytelling, Wanheda Clarke Griffin, Worldbuilding, i think, more like an exploration of grounder myth, myths and legends, this isn't even really a fic per se
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26141017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbecauseyoubelievesomething/pseuds/justbecauseyoubelievesomething
Summary: A Clarke Griffin drabble for Writer's Month 2020. Prompt 18: myths.
Series: Writer's Month 2020 Prompts [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1863823
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Writer's Month 2020





	Wanheda

Her hair burned like fire, falling in long waves down her back. Her eyes cut deeper than the knife at her belt, turning on her enemies like beacons of vengeance. Her footsteps were soft, but the weight of them made even the animals turn and flee as she stalked among the trees. She moved like a shadow, slipping in and out of villages unseen. Yet her presence brought a chill to the air, enough for anyone nearby to feel a shiver in their soul. Her name fell like a prayer and a warning from the lips of the elders and the chill slowly dissolved. 

They started leaving offerings at the borders of the village. First, those rescued from the Mountain. They piled stones in haphazard mounds in the dirt, creating their own small mountains. They wreathed them in flowers and fruits, praying she would bless them by taking their gifts. As the offerings grew, it became popular to decorate the stones with blood. A cry of thanksgiving for the savior of their blood. A cry of shame for the spilled blood of her people.

They spoke of her in the summer, under skies of glittering stars, telling the children stories of her passion as they marched into battle. Stories of the war chants she shared with them, words foreign to her tongue but sacred nonetheless. They spoke of her during the harvest, as they feasted on their bounty and celebrated the unification of all clans but one. They wove tales of her great love for the commander, her daring rescue of her beloved from monsters in the woods. If the tales reached the ears of the commander, she never acknowledged them, but even from afar she seemed sadder and softer. They spoke of her during the winter as they huddled at their hearths, hands outstretched over dying embers. The story of the Great Betrayal at the Mountain. Where they turned their backs on her and marched away, so that she stood against the stone alone, a single figure cloaked in gold. They spoke of the darkness in her eyes and her descent into the heart of the Mountain, the princess in search of her people.

And in the spring, as the world came to life again, and the sun cast its golden rays over the raw earth, they spoke of her rebirth. Her defiance of death. Her command over it. 


End file.
